Carageian miles

He used to hide around corners, sneak out into the road from behind a tree, drive along side clocking our speed. Faster, he'd say, easy doesn't mean you don't have to work. We had simple rules. Come if you didn't have a fever. Do an alternative workout if you had an injury. I spent two weeks once on stationary and mobile bike, strapped into an aqua-jogger like a fool nordic-tracking in the pool, something every day. Never walk. Ever. It takes about two weeks to really get a habit started - waking up at 545 and stretching while the sun slowly lit up our shadows on the pavement - showering in public for the first time - packing a backpack in two minutes, putting my shoes on in the car - and it takes a second to break it. I was undaunted until one workout, two years in, trying leap a chain over the road and catching my shin right where it meets the ankle. I gave up on the end of that workout, the first and only I ever stopped in until the day my lungs betrayed me and I stumbled off the track onto the grass panicked, wondering how I had turned into some sort of balloon. Consistency was key. Is key. I have wavered from this path for two weeks now, long enough to form a habit of not acting. It's a hard road to fight back on. I'd much rather go to bed, do the dishes, wake up a little later in the morning for work or go to sleep that five minutes earlier. I forget, remember when the light's off and I'm slipping into dreams. But this is my record, my waking dream; if I give it up what will I ever be able to fight for again?